The Overlays Exposed My First Lady’s Secret / Chapter 2: Rachel’s Breakdown
The Overlays Exposed My First Lady’s Secret

The Overlays Exposed My First Lady’s Secret

Author: Patrick Galloway

Chapter 2: Rachel’s Breakdown

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I made a beeline for the Oval Office and told my assistant not to let anyone in. My mind was racing—divorcing the First Lady was just step one; freezing the Mitchell family’s assets was next. General Mitchell keeps undercutting me in Cabinet meetings, making me look weak. No one knew about the Mitchell plan. How did those overlays know?

My fingers drummed restlessly on the Resolute Desk, the old West Wing printer whirring in the background. These were secrets I’d never uttered—not to Rachel, not Jeff, not even in a memo. The idea of freezing the Mitchells’ assets was nuclear. But what really rattled me was the sense I wasn’t alone.

Now the overlays claimed Rachel’s baby wasn’t even mine. Ridiculous. Who else could she even be with? Would Emily—the First Lady—really stage something that twisted?

I shook my head, smirking. Rachel had always been loyal. But the overlays’ certainty left me uneasy, a cold draft curling through the Oval despite the steady hum of the radiator. Was Emily really capable of something this conniving? The thought lingered.

Then the overlays flashed up again.

[Strange, according to the novel, the clueless president was definitely going to divorce the First Lady today. Did he suddenly get a clue and realize she’s actually a good person who shouldn’t be thrown away?]

[Given Rachel’s personality, I bet she’ll come storm into the Oval Office soon.]

Just as I finished reading, I heard footsteps outside. Before I could react, the door banged open. A pink blur stormed in, fuming. Rachel pointed at my chief of staff and snapped, “Mr. President, this jerk tried to keep me out. Are you seriously letting him keep me out? I thought you said I could come in whenever.”

Rachel strode in like she owned the place—her pink heels clicking on the floor, perfume lingering in the air. Her cheeks were flushed, lips tight with irritation. Jeff looked sheepish, his cool gone in the face of Rachel’s glare.

I shot Jeff a look. He shrugged, flustered. “Sorry, sir, I just couldn’t stop her.”

He ran a hand through his hair, pleading for backup.

Rachel turned to me, voice sharp but edged with hurt. “Please, you told me I could see you whenever I wanted, and you let this guy block me?”

Her Southern drawl softened her words, but the accusation stung.

I remembered my promise and relaxed a little. Rachel instantly collapsed onto my lap, arms around my neck. She nestled against me, her hair brushing my cheek, the world narrowing to just us in the Oval’s lamplight. She knew how to command the room—and me. For a moment, I let myself enjoy it.

Then, the overlays popped up—

[There’s always a price for chasing after lust. This clueless president is doomed to fall because of women.]

[I thought he’d changed, but serves him right. No wonder he ends up losing both the country and the women. The real hero who cares about his work is way better.]

My face hardened. I froze. Rachel’s weight shifted, and she slid off my lap. She looked up, stunned, tears welling in her eyes. My heart clenched. I missed the next overlay. I wanted to reach for her, to say something—anything—but the overlays’ words echoed, making every move feel like a trap.

“You don’t love me anymore. You said you’d make me First Lady today. I waited all day for the announcement, but it never came. I came to find you, only to be shut out again. If you really don’t want to make me First Lady, you shouldn’t have led me on. Now the other women are laughing at me.”

Her voice cracked with real pain. She hugged her pink cardigan, bracing herself against the imagined scorn of the White House. I could picture the staffers’ texts, the sidelong glances in the halls. Even in power, Rachel was losing the popularity contest.

She pointed at a nearby column, eyes watery. “Maybe I should just slam my head into it and be done.”

Her trembling finger aimed at the old, white column—a piece of White House history. The desperation in her eyes wasn’t all theater. In this house, even the would-be First Lady could feel like prey.

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